


Quidditch After Dark

by hazybella



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Friends, Harry Potter Fanfiction Club Server's Winter Challenge II, Hogwarts Era, Hogwarts Seventh Year, M/M, Oliver is oblivious, Quidditch, friends to ???, just my excuse to write some quidditch tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:14:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29778066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazybella/pseuds/hazybella
Summary: Oliver Wood and Marcus Flint have always been rivals, sworn to be enemies from the moment they stepped onto the Quidditch pitch in different coloured robes. Maybe some late night Quidditch can change that.Written for HPFC Winter Challenge II :)
Relationships: Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood
Comments: 4
Kudos: 32





	Quidditch After Dark

The first time that Oliver Wood began to regard Marcus Flint as anything other than his arch-rival was in the middle of February in his final year at Hogwarts. It was starting to sink in that his time at Hogwarts was not as infinite as it had always felt, and was coming to an end sooner than he perhaps would like. He found himself restless in his dormitory in the evenings, unable to remove the nervous energy that seemed to increase in proportionally to the distance his Cleansweep was from his hands. After enduring a week of this, instead of heading up to his dormitory at nine o’clock like his other roommates, he slipped out of the portrait hole and made his way out of the castle towards the Quidditch pitch. It was a place where Oliver had always felt at home; the feeling of flying was beautifully familiar to him, and gave a sense of reassurance when nothing else could quite calm him.

He would stay out for anywhere between thirty minutes and three hours, revelling in just _flying_ without worrying about where the Quaffle was, or what his Seeker was doing, or shouting at the Weasley twins for hitting Bludgers at each other during practice rather than at their teammates. Flying had always been associated with competition to Oliver, and it was strangely freeing to just exist in the air. It didn’t hurt to have an opportunity to try out some new manoeuvres either.

At the end of his fifth evening spent flying by himself, Oliver was about to dismount and return to the castle, when he noticed a burly figure striding towards the pitch. In his years facing this same person on the Quidditch pitch, Oliver had become quite well acquainted with Marcus Flint. What he _didn’t_ understand was why he was headed towards the Quidditch pitch at eleven o’clock at night. For a moment, he was worried that Flint had seen him out here and told a professor – he wouldn’t put it past him considering their less-than-friendly relationship. However, a second glance in his direction allowed him to notice the distinctive shape of a broom clutched in his right hand. Evidently, Flint was here for the same reason as him.

Oliver flew down and landed a few metres in front of Flint, watching surprise flit across the other boy’s face before it returned to its usual impassive mask. Oliver was clearly not the only one who hadn’t expected to come across someone else at this time.

“Flint,” Oliver muttered, nodding at the older boy. He was exhausted and was really not in the mood to engage in the hurling of insults when he would much rather be crashing face-first into his four-poster back in Gryffindor Tower.

Thankfully, Flint appeared to understand, and gave a mere grunt and vague nod before striding past Oliver and mounting his broom.

Shaking his head, Oliver continued walking up to the castle, praying that he would be able to avoid Filch.

***

The next time that Oliver saw Flint in the evening, he was heading towards the pitch soon after the Keeper had left the ground. Oliver stayed at the far end, ignoring Flint, who seemed to have had the same idea and was keeping to the area closest to the Castle. For the first half-hour or so, Oliver was able to forget entirely that he was not the only one there. He focused on the feeling of the broom between his fingers and the wind whistling past his ears as he pushed himself faster before pulling into a tight turn.

Oliver was well aware of how incredibly fragile humans were, sporting far too many scars from years of Quidditch training as proof, but flying like this made him feel _invincible_.

After a while, he slowed his pace, feeling the agitation from his classes earlier leaving his body. He turned his mind to the latest copy of _Quidditch Weekly_ currently sat on his bedside table with about half the pages dog-eared. He recalled the article about a complex keeping manoeuvre called the Zograf Twist, where the player dives from above the hoops to prevent the Quaffle from entering any of the hoops. He had spent enough time visualizing the move in his head that he felt confident giving it a shot, knowing that he would need to have more complicated manoeuvres to use in the upcoming Gryffindor-Slytherin match in three weeks’ time if he wanted to win – and he was determined to do so.

Picturing the stages of the dive in his head, he positioned himself a few metres above the middle hoop, taking a deep breath before angling the nose of the broom downwards and pushing forward, executing a near-vertical dive. Twisting his body to the left, he turned in the air and shot an arm out to mimic blocking a shot. Looking around, the Keeper cursed lightly when he realised that he was a good two metres left from where he had intended to be.

“You overshot it,” a voice behind him said. Oliver jumped and swore, not expecting to find the Slytherin Chaser 5 metres away from him when he’d been at the other end of the pitch not five minutes ago.

“I’m well aware of that, thanks,” huffed Oliver. “It was a first attempt at the—”

“Yeah, the Zograf Twist, I know,” interrupted Marcus, coming round to hover in front of Oliver. “It was still vaguely recognizable, although you completely butchered the half twist, so it was no wonder you ended up such a distance from the left hoop.”

“Sorry, didn’t realise I was speaking to the expert on Keeper manoeuvres,”, Oliver snapped, aware that he was being childish, but also embarrassed about being corrected by someone who didn’t even play his position. “Want to tell me how to fix it then?”

Flint smirked. “I could, but why would I do that? Maybe it’s just the fact that you’re playing on an ancient Cleansweep rather than a Nimbus – perhaps you should upgrade to something with a turning circle smaller than that of a Hippogriff?”

Gritting his teeth, Oliver did his best to ignore the dig. He knew he wasn’t as well-off as Marcus Flint, whose family was a member of the notorious Sacred Twenty-Eight, but he was proud of the fact that he didn’t need to rely upon his kit to help him, and instead could make up for the less desirable tendencies of the broom through his own skill. “Piss off Flint,” he scowled, turning and positioning himself above the Quidditch hoops again, running through the steps and trying to figure out where he was going wrong. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Flint still hovering in the vicinity, and he attempted to shake off the unsettling feeling of having the boy’s eyes set on him while he was trying to focus.

He took another breath before pushing into another steep dive. He twisted, focusing on quickening his movements, once again taking his left hand off the broom to reach out for the imaginary Quaffle.

Looking around at his positioning, he swore under his breath when he found he had still overshot the left hoop by a considerable amount, although it was by noticeably less than before. It was frustrating – normally Oliver was able to pick up new moves easily after running through it in his mind repeatedly, but something about this particular one wasn’t sticking. He huffed out an annoyed breath, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair and brush it out of his eyes.

“You need to pull up more sharply,” commented Flint from beside him.

Oliver closed his eyes, taking a steadying breath before turning to face the Slytherin.

“What are you talking about?” Oliver questioned warily, unsure as to whether his pride could really take the hit of being given advice by Marcus Flint.

“When you enter the twist, you’re pulling up too slowly. It’s carrying your dive too far and overcompensating in distance, that’s why you’re ending up over there,” he explained, a smug expression settling on his face.

Much as Oliver didn’t want to admit it, the things that Flint was saying made sense. However, the part of his pride that had already taken a hit from being given advice by a Slytherin Chaser – and Flint of all people, why couldn’t it have been someone like Pucey, who was generally at least civil with him? – really didn’t want to admit this. So instead of thanking Flint, he merely shrugged lightly and nodded before turning and taking position once again.

_Dive, pull up sharply, twist, stretch out arm, catch Quaffle._

He closed his eyes briefly before pushing forward for the third time, allowing his body to take over his mind and put the steps into motion. As he began to twist, he focused on pulling the broom up as hard as he could before stretching out a hand. He glanced around, satisfied to see he was perfectly positioned in front of the centre hoop.

Oliver glanced around, wondering where Flint had gone and if he’d seen his fucking perfect execution of the tricky manoeuvre (if he did say so himself). He felt slightly disappointed when he saw Flint had returned to the other end of the pitch, his back facing Oliver. The Gryffindor Keeper wondered briefly why he was disappointed that Flint hadn’t seen, but put it down to the fact that he wanted to prove he was able to do the manoeuvre, coupled with how he could practically hear his bed calling his name and was vaguely delirious with sleep deprivation at that point. Not allowing himself to dwell on Flint any longer, he flew back down to the ground and dismounted, making his way back up to the castle. As he walked up the path, he turned to glance back at the pitch. He could see the other man hovering by the hoops, the moon behind him casting a silhouette. Tentatively, Oliver raised a hand as a slight wave, aware that he should at least give some indication that he appreciated the advice, as much as it pained him to accept it. Immediately, he felt rather silly, unsure if the Chaser was even looking at him. He put his hand down and was just about to turn to continue his journey back up to the castle when he saw Flint’s hand raise in response.

***

The following evenings followed much the same pattern; Oliver and Marcus kept to their respective ends of the pitch, occasionally offering advice shrouded in insults that were rapidly becoming more joking than malicious, and making fun of the other whenever something went wrong.

About two weeks after their initial evening practice, Oliver and Marcus were both staying out for longer, conscious of the rapidly approaching Gryffindor-Slytherin match the following week. After almost three hours of intense practice, Oliver was exhausted. The brunet dismounted his broom and flopped down in the grass, gazing up at the sky above. He heard Marcus landing behind him, and a moment later, another body laid down next to him, close enough that Oliver could feel his body heat, a stark contrast from the biting February air. The silence stretched out while the two boys caught their breath.

“So, what does the future hold for Oliver Wood?” Marcus questioned after a while, keeping his gaze on the stars above.

Oliver shrugged. “Obviously going pro is the dream, can you imagine? Living and breathing Quidditch all day, every day—"

“As if you don’t do that already,” Marcus interrupted from beside him, snorting.

“Shut up!” Oliver said sheepishly, “It all depends on whether any scouts like the look of me in the upcoming matches anyway. Puddlemere is my goal, but I’ll be happy wherever I end up honestly – as long as it isn’t the Magpies,” he added, unable to resist taking a dig at Marcus’ favourite team.

“Puddlemere would be crazy not to take you, considering the state of their defence these past few years – they could do with a decent new player,” Marcus muttered. Oliver was lost for words for a few moments, unsure what to make of the apparent compliment that had just come out of Marcus’ mouth.

“Thanks,” he murmured, feeling his face flush slightly. “What about you? Surely you’re going pro as well?”

The Slytherin was silent for a minute, and Oliver began to wonder if he’d said something wrong, or if perhaps the Chaser had fallen asleep on the pitch.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do after Hogwarts,” Marcus confessed. “My parents want me to go into the Ministry, so I suppose that’s where I’ll end up.” Bitterness tainted his tone.

“How can you not be doing Quidditch? People would kill to be able to have half the skill you do, and you’re just going to throw that away for some dull Ministry job?” Oliver couldn’t help but feel incredulous.

“It’s not that easy,” Marcus spat, “People in my family don’t just become Quidditch players. The Flints are prestigious members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, do you really think Quidditch is considered to be a respectable career? Fuck, of course I’d love to go pro, but not all of us have families like yours Wood.”

Oliver remained silent for a few minutes, mulling over how to respond. A glance to his left showed him Marcus still laid there, his body tense with his fists clenched tightly by his sides.

Oliver had always felt some sort of mutual understanding between himself and Marcus, even when they were sworn enemies and rivals. Despite their differences on and off the pitch, Oliver knew that this was the only other person at Hogwarts who could relate to how consumed his life was by Quidditch. When the Gryffindors shared lessons with the Slytherins, he would often spot Marcus doodling plays in the corners of his parchment, murmuring under his breath. Marcus was the only other person who understood the passion that Oliver felt for the sport – yes, it was a key element of the other players’ lives, but for Oliver, Quidditch was what he lived for.

Which was why he found it so unbelievable that Marcus was going to throw all that away.

“I’m sorry,” he settled for murmuring after a long pause. “But for the record, it’s your life, not theirs – surely that counts for something?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other boy shrug his shoulders. Oliver could almost feel the walls going back up around Marcus, guarding him once again and hiding whatever vulnerability the boy had exposed to him for some unknown reason minutes earlier. Abruptly, the older boy stood up.

“It’s late, we should head back – Filch will be nearing this side of the castle again soon and the last thing I need is a run-in with him,” Marcus said briskly, his voice remaining carefully emotionless. Oliver nodded silently, pushing himself up from the ground and grabbing his Cleansweep in his left hand. For the first time, the two boys walked back to the castle shoulder-to-shoulder.

***

After that night, Oliver didn’t see Marcus at the pitch for almost a week. He wasn’t sure why this bothered him as much as it did, or why the pitch suddenly felt so much emptier than it had done before Marcus had begun joining him. He was equally surprised by the sense of happiness that he felt when, 6 days later, he pulled up from a sprint to see the unmistakable form of Marcus Flint striding towards the pitch. Oliver quickly noticed something else as well – the clear shape of the box of Quidditch balls secured under the arm that was not holding his broom. His confusion only mounted when Marcus began waving at him and gesturing for him to come back down.

By the time Oliver was back on the ground, Marcus had already undone the thick straps that held the crate closed and was pulling the lid open. Oliver could see the crate shaking from the Bludgers struggling to escape and went over to hold it still while Marcus fished out the Quaffle and slammed the lid shut again. Crouched on the floor next to the other boy, Oliver was able to make out more of his expression in the moonlight than he had previously. Dimly, Oliver wondered why his brain found it important to note that Marcus had a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks, or the fact that there was a narrow scar running vertically through his left eyebrow. Shaking himself and deciding that any form of thinking could wait until he was off the pitch, Oliver stood up again, crossing his arms across his chest and waiting for some form of explanation from the other boy.

Once Marcus had finished tightening the buckles again, he stood to face Oliver.

“Look, Wood, I’m a Chaser, yes? And you’re a Keeper? So surely, we might as well make the most of the chance to practice. There’s no way you’re getting onto Puddlemere with the amount of shots you let in at the moment,” Marcus said, raising his eyebrows.

Oliver snorted at the comment that he found himself glad to see was playful banter rather than the poised dig that it would have been mere weeks ago. “Fuck off, my block stats are the best the school’s seen in ten years and you bloody well know it,” he shot, “But your left arm throws could really use some work, so I suppose I can be a martyr and help you out.”

To Oliver’s surprise, the usually-emotionless man threw his head back and laughed – a deep, rich sound that Oliver decided he wouldn’t mind hearing again.

***

Two hours later, when Oliver finally crashed onto his four-poster fully clothed with his eyes already closing, he dreamt of freckles and exposed throats and laughter carrying in the wind.


End file.
